Eternity
by lionesseyes13
Summary: After seeing the correct version of Slughorn's memory, Professor Dumbledore reflects on an interesting conversation he had with Tom Riddle.


Disclaimer: Unless you've yet to discover the on switch for your brain, you'll realize that I am not J.K. Rowing, because, if I were, I would not be publishing on a fanfiction website.

Author's Note: This takes place after Harry gets the final memory from Slughorn about Horcruxes, even though it then falls into a flashback. Although I am planning this only as a one shot, if you have other ideas, feel free to let me now by reviewing. Thanks.

The year of 1938 is found by subtracting fifty years from 1992 to arrive at Riddle's fifth-year when he opened the Chamber of Secrets, which places us at 1942, and then subtracting another two years from there.

Reviews: Reviews are always welcome. After all, they are the only salary I receive, so let's not fall into a review recession.

Eternity

Eternity. That one words carried so much baggage around with it that even a giant would probably be bent double if it had to tote all that luggage about with it. The elusive promise of eternal life was something almost all humans longed for. I certainly did. That was part of the reason why Grindelwald and I had been so obsessed with finding the Deathly Hallows in that summer after I graduated Hogwarts― that summer that left its everlasting, indelible handprint on my heart, because it was that summer that I lost my mother and my sister, and that a rift settled between my brother and me that never truly healed. Broken hearts may be mended, after all, but the scars are always there, and once shadows fall between people, they never are entirely lifted. Of course, that summer had taken more than my family away from me. It had stripped me of my illusions. I was no longer convinced of my own purity, since I had been tempted by the prospect of power over others, and, although I hadn't identified it at the time, seduced by the notion of conquering omnipotent death. It was that summer that made me who I am today more than any battle I ever had to with Voldemort or Grindelwald, because in many ways, it was my first winter.

As I stated earlier, I was definitely not alone in my yearning for eternal life. Religious beings prayed and resisted temptation in hopes of acquiring it, and some people even went so far as to become martyrs or saints to attain it. Yet, nobody had ever went farther than Tom Riddle in the hopes of getting it. Ironically enough, the person who sought eternal life most was the one who murdered countless beings. That wasn't all he did, though. No, he didn't stop at killing others, for that would be too tame for the likes of him; he had to murder himself and his soul for it.

The greatest irony, though, was that, even with those Horcruxes that the memory Harry had just procured from Slughorn for me that offered incontrovertible proof that Voldemort had created, he would not have eternal life. Harry and I had each destroyed one of his Horcruxes, and I had faith that Harry would manage to ruin the rest. After all, it was the pattern in all their confrontations that, in the end, no matter how the odds might seem to be staked against him, Harry would emerge the victor.

Like everyone else, Voldemort would perish. Unlike everyone else, Voldemort who boasted so loudly of going farther down the path that led to immortality than anyone else in the history of civilization, would not have eternal life. When everybody else died, their souls would go on, as the ghosts explained, to wherever souls went after they had made their final journey. However, for Voldemort, who had shredded his own soul, there would only be death with no hope of resurrection. He who fled from death would ultimately be the one who was most victimized by it, because there was, after a fashion, justice in the world, even if only on a supernatural plane.

As the door swung shut behind Harry, I thought that I should have foreseen that Voldemort would build himself Horcruxes even before Harry had shown me Riddle's diary in his second-year. Looking back through the mists of time, I could discern with the twenty-twenty vision characteristic of hindsight that I should have figured out what Tom Riddle's passion for eternal life and defying death coupled with his desire for power would mean he would do to himself and to others. After all, Tom had given me all the clues even if, being only thirteen at the time, he had not spotted what he was revealing. As far back as his third-year at Hogwarts, Tom had let down his guard long enough to show his true face to me.

I had never shared this memory with Harry, because it was not as definitive as the other memories had been, and there had been no time. Anyway, so much time had passed since then and so much had occurred, I couldn't even be sure that I remembered correctly.

As I recollect it, though, it was two days before Christmas in 1938, and the corridors of Hogwarts were silent. The giggling and gossiping pupils that typically jammed the hallways had all departed three days previously to visit their families for the holidays and wouldn't return until after New Year's.

The stillness of the school was echoed in the weather and the grounds. Tranquil pearls of snow were dropping from the pewter sky, adding themselves to the meters that had already accumulated on the barren earth, blanketing everything in a quiet, cold white. Undisturbed ice coated the lake, and no bird calls pierced the air. Even the shouts and laughs of the students who were engaging in a snowfight on the grounds could not be heard from this height and distance. At that moment, if one forgot about Grindelwald and the havoc he was creating in other parts of the world, one could almost believe that the world was now at peace, it had always been so, and it would always be so with nothing ever intruding upon this harmony.

Since everything was so hushed, I had kept my office door open while I graded essays for my N.E.W.T. Transfiguraiton classes. For some reason, the open door allowed me to feel linked to everything that was going on in the serene castle and grounds, assuming that there was actually anything occurring in the school, and that everyone wasn't outside, enjoying the snow.

The fact that things were actually taking place in the castle and that I wasn't the only one inside its walls was illustrated when I heard footsteps pass my study. If I hadn't kept my door ajar, I never would have heard the smack of shoes against the flagstones, which caused me to glance up at the passerby.

My curiosity was rewarded when I recognized that it was Tom Riddle who was striding by my office. To be frank, Tom had always intrigued me. At the orphanage, I had gotten the impression when I first met him that he had little use for authority figures in general and me in particular, unless I could show him some new magic tricks he had never seen before which he had no qualms about attempting to bully out of me, yet he was always respectful of my fellow staff members and even of me after our initial interaction. Despite the fact that his eyes were generally distant and calculating, most individuals defined him as charming. Even though he had appeared to be an unfeeling bully at the orphanage, he was popular at Hogwarts, there was never any suggestion that he was picking on other pupils, and he seemed to shy to try such a thing as far as most of his professors were concerned. Personally, I wasn't so positive. To me, Tom had absorbed society's morals only enough to feign them, but not enough to practice them. His virtue was all pretend. Life to him was about playing a part to further his own ends. For that reason, I felt I needed to watch him closely. At the very least, watching him would be an interesting foray into the human psyche.

"Mr. Riddle, come in here, please," I shouted after him, as he headed by my office.

At my words, he pivoted instantly and entered my study, wearing an anxious expression, or what, judging by the furrowed forehead, should have been such a face if only the eyes hadn't been devoid of all worry. "I'm terribly sorry if I disturbed you, Professor," he apologized. "I would hate to be the one who interrupted such a brilliant magician while he was about to do something even more impressive than discovering the twelve uses of dragon blood."

"Don't fret about that. I was doing something a little less monumental today, for I was merely grading papers for my N.E.W.T classes," I responded, ignoring his flattery. Maybe his flattery worked on the rest of his teachers, especially his Head of House, but it was not effective with me, although his knack at flattery might explain his overwhelming popularity with the staff and the students of this school. After all, flattery was an illness that few were immune to.

"Oh, what a relief." Tom exhaled gustily as though a massive burden had just been removed from his shoulders at my remark. "Well, sir, I was just off to the library to do some research, so, if you have no further need of me, I'll be on my way…"

"I'd like to speak with you for a few moments, if it's not too much trouble as a matter of fact," I interjected, thinking that he must have known I would say that. Surely he was smart enough to figure out that, if I hadn't called him in here to reprimand him for making too much noise in the corridor, there was something I wanted to talk to him about. Requesting that someone enter your office just to inform them that they were not distracting you as they walked by was a terrible waste of everyone's energy.

"What about?" Tom's forehead knotted again as he posed this inquiry. "I am certain that I turned in your essay on Animagi before the holidays began. Unless Lestrange forgot to hand it up to you, I don't see how you didn't receive it, Professor."

"I don't want to talk to you about your essay, which, by the way, was excellent as usual," I assured him. Gesturing at one of the cushioned oak chairs opposite my desk, I added, "Please make yourself comfortable."

"Thanks, sir." Tom settled himself in the seat I indicated and frowned, "Did I do something else wrong, then?"

"No, if you did anything against the rules, I am not aware of it," I educated him, wondering if his last question was the byproduct of a guilty conscience. "I just want to talk to you. Since you are an orphan, I think of it as my obligation as a teacher to keep an eye on you."

For a split second, Tom's features seemed to tauten with aggravation that implied he did not approve of the notion of being monitored, especially by his least favorite instructor. Well, he could do with a reminder that not everything on the planet was going to bend itself to his will, no matter how mighty he envisioned himself to be. Then, he murmured in a determinedly pleasant tone, "I really appreciate your concern, Professor, but it is unwarranted. I assure you that I am doing just fine at Hogwarts. I have never been happier than I am here."

"I hear from my fellow teachers that you are earning top marks in their lessons, and certainly your Transfiguration work is above reproach," I agreed. At this, Tom bowed his head in what was evidently supposed to be modesty, but this display of humility was revealed to be pretend by the smug glint evident in his eyes even when his head was tilted downward. Tom Riddle was too proud even to feign modesty. "Yet, school is about more than just academics, and sometimes the most important lessons are learned outside of the classroom."

"I have plenty of friends, I assure you, sir," Tom informed me, the satisfied glitter in his eyes changing to an impatient one even as his voice remained polite.

Friends was a funny term for what seemed to be a group of followers kept in line by fear, I noted inwardly, as I pointed out, "You received offers from your friends, so I heard, to stay at their homes over the holidays, and you have not accepted any of them."

"I don't wish to be a burden to my friends or their families," replied Tom, the lack of emotion on his face and in his voice belying his assertion.

"Admirable sentiments, yet I find it distressing to see you lock yourself up in the library two days before Christmas, Tom," I commented. "You could join the rest of the students remaining here in their snowball fight."

"I don't care for snowball fights, Professor," stated Tom, a note of scorn for this childhood entertainment apparent in his manner. "They're so_ unrefined_."

"They might be unrefined, but they would get you into the Christmas spirit," I insisted, thinking that I was certainly dealing with an odd youth if he would rather bury his nose in a book instead of have fun with his peers. Of course, Tom would probably never acknowledge that he had peers, as he would never admit to having equals.

"Professor Slughorn's party before term ended has already gotten me into the Christmas spirit," answered Tom, continuing our verbal sparring match. This was the rhythm of all our exchanges: he would always strive to fend me off, and he would always end up revealing more about his inner workings than he intended to, although what he showed was never very much. Even what little he revealed was enough to trouble me and prompted me to dig deeper, however.

"I hope you didn't get into the spirit too much," I chuckled, unable to resist the pun, although I sensed it would annoy my guest.

"I promise that I just had butterbeer," declared Tom stiffly, his cheeks ablaze so much that their hue rivaled autumn apples. "You can ask Professor Slughorn if you don't believe me, sir."

"If you're as honest as you claim, Tom, why should I ever have cause to doubt your word?" I arched my eyebrows at him.

"I don't know, Professor." His eyes expanded innocently, as if there could be anything innocent about him. "Why don't you tell me? You've never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers do, and I confess that your dislike mystifies me."

Obviously, I was his least favorite instructor, because I suspected that he would never have dared to treat another professor like this. Granted, there was nothing I could point to as being impudent, but there was this manner about him that rendered everything he said a sort of challenge. If he was interested in sassing me, though, he would discover that I could be quite witty, too. "I don't know how you arrived at the conclusion that I dislike you, Tom," I countered. "I like all my students."

"But not to the same degree, sir," argued Tom. "I think I am at the bottom of the hierarchy of students you like." Now, there was a note of suppressed anger in his voice. He could not stand to be beaten by those with less magical talent than him, clearly.

"Someone who is the favorite of basically all his teachers would do well not to make a habit of complaining about favoritism," I reasoned. "It smells of hypocrisy, Mr. Riddle, and few like that stench."

"Sir, I'm not responsible if some of my professors prefer me to other students," Tom contended. "After all, everyone controls their own likes and dislikes, Professor."

"Yet you obviously are interested in having me like you," I observed.

"Of course. I want everyone to like me, sir," announced Tom, his eyes widening with what he plainly intended to be sincerity. "Anyway, you essentially confessed that you don't care for me as much as you do the rest of your students. Why? If I was rude to you at the orphanage, it was only because I was shocked and imagined that you were about to drag me to the asylum. You can't blame me for not wanting to go there, Professor. The doctors they've got there beat their patients, give them medicines that never work and make them even crazier, and the patients are chained in cells like people are in Azkaban. Disease is rampant in the asylums, and nobody ever escapes them. Muggles don't have nice wards for their lunatics yet like wizards have got at St. Mungo's, and nobody ever escapes from asylums. All the inmates in asylums die in them sooner or later, so who can fault an eleven-year-old boy for not wishing to meet such a gruesome end?"

"That's not what disconcerted me," I asserted, concealing my astonishment that he would mention what had transpired between us at the orphanage when I had invited him to attend Hogwarts. Since he had never alluded to it before and since he perceived it as offering me a compromising insight into his mind and soul that contrasted sharply with the virtuous shell he had constructed for himself here at Hogwarts, he liked to pretend that no such scene had happened. Now, he was obviously trying to slip into my brain and change my interpretation of what had occurred there in his favor. "What discomfited me was the evidence of how you had used your powers to torment other children."

"Professor, you can't seriously blame me for that, either," protested Tom, everything but his eyes utterly earnest, because it was always the eyes that betrayed the true emptiness inside him where his heart should have been. He was the closest thing to an amoral being that I had ever encountered, and he was only thirteen. What would he be like when he reached adulthood? Hopefully, better, but somehow I had the sinking feeling that he would only fall farther into the depths of true evil. "I was very young― even younger than I am now― and I was raised in an orphanage in a poorer neighborhood of London. From the time I was a baby, I was taught that only fighters survived. From the cradle, I was taught by the older children that fists beat manners, sticks triumph over fists, and knives vanquish sticks. Admittedly, I was never as strong physically as the others, and I was bullied often. Naturally, the bigger children picking on me terrified me, and accidental magic slipped out of me against them when I was scared or furious. I was unable to control my emotions and my powers like all little wizards and witches. It wasn't really my fault, sir. I couldn't control it any more than the people with seizures who get themselves lugged off to asylums can control their fits."

His story sounded credible, just as all of his explanations for his veiled savagery did, but I didn't believe it for a moment.

"I take it you never experimented with your magical abilities while you were at the orphanage?" I pressed, although I already knew the answer. Yes, Tom had experimented with his magic more than even children reared in the Wizarding world did. He had detected with his agile brain an opportunity to control others with his magical talents, and he had been determined to take advantage of it by learning as much as he could about his unusual abilities. With him, magic had never been just about self-defense. It had always been about domination. The incredible influence he wielded over other humans was the attribute that I judged most disquieting about him. The coldness just beneath his charming guise was unsettling enough, but his thirst for power over everyone else was even worse.

"Of course I experimented, Professor." Tom dismissed this with an airy wave of his hand. "After a couple of odd incidents, I realized that I had powers that nobody I had ever encountered did. My curiosity was aroused by this, and I began pushing the bounds of my magic. With no older witches and wizards to guide me, I didn't understand the importance of self control."

"And now you do?" I demanded. Inwardly, I didn't suspect that this was so. Many of Tom's companions were thugs― the sort of people that one could only govern through fear. As such, I surmised that Tom was still employing his magic to control others.

"Yes, sir." He bobbed his head in fervent affirmation. "You can even ask my friends if you want to."

Ah, that was very shrewd of him. We both were well aware of the fact that my doing so would be as pointless as dropping a rose petal in a canyon and waiting for the echo, as Tom's so-called friends would doubtlessly lie to protect his interests, probably intimidated by the prospect of what punishment he would inflict on them if they didn't.

For a moment, I stared into his eyes, trying to perform Legilimency. Unfortunately, however, he must have read about that technique, for his mind went suddenly blank, as though it were a blackboard that had been erased of any traces of chalk. In any human, it was rare to come across an empty mind, and in someone as bright as Tom, a blank brain could only be a result of a deliberate effort to conceal his thoughts.

Maybe I should have pushed him harder, for there was no way that a thirteen-year-old could have blocked his mind from me for very long, but I didn't. I could have overcome his defenses rapidly, but just because I could do something, that didn't mean I should. If only Tom would master this lesson, as well, then the world would be a better place.

"I see. Very well, then. Now, relax," I ordered. "Christmas isn't a season for stress. It's the time to jolly, as it's the best part of the year."

"Oh, I've always preferred Easter to Christmas, sir," Tom told me.

"You like chocolate so much that it outweighs the carols, the mistletoes, the evergreens, the baubles, and the presents?" I asked, surprised because you could normally rely on a materialistic Slytherin to love Christmas more than Easter, and, given Tom's collection of objects that hadn't belonged to him in the orphanage, I doubted that he would prove the exception to this rule.

"With all due respect, Professor, those are trappings, and holidays are about ideas," Tom explained, his face contemplative as he mused aloud. "Christmas has better trappings than Easter, but it has to, because Easter has far more significant concepts underlying it."

"Yes, Christmas does celebrate the birth of Jesus, which really wouldn't have been all that critical if He hadn't been resurrected on Easter," I conceded, still wrong-footed by his statements. "That's why Easter is the highest holy day on the Christian calendar, but, Tom, I never knew you were so religious."

"Oh, I'm not very religious at all, sir," established Tom in a near whisper. "Still, I hardly need to be particularly devout to appreciate Easter. From an academic standpoint, the notion of eternal life and defying death appeals to me very much."

"You would live forever, then, if you could?" I pursued, eager for any insights into the mind of this lad I was watching so closely.

"Of course I would, Professor." Tom's lips tightened, and he sounded as though he were struggling not to snort derisively. "The idea of dying does not excite me. I do not want to become a cold, motionless hunk of flesh and bones buried in the earth for the maggots to feast on."

"Ah, Tom, you must accept death, for it knocks on everyone's door eventually," I advised him gently. For the first time, I felt true sympathy for him. Everyone feared death at some point in their life, but it would be infinitely more terrifying to someone whose mother had perished in childbirth.

"I thought we were being hypothetical," he reminded me. "Surely, in theory, I'm permitted to be opposed to my own death, sir."

"Theoretically, you shouldn't be," I said mildly. "Even theoretically, you shouldn't stand in staunch opposition to death. Death is natural―"

"But just because something is natural, that doesn't make it desirable, Professor," pointed out Tom. "Nackedness is natural, but we fight it by wearing clothes. Ignorance is natural, but we combat it by erecting schools like this. The elements are natural, yet we battle against them by building shelters―"

Listening to him, I found it alarming how much of his worldview revolved around fighting, but my tone was steady as I countered, "It is as essential a component in the life cycle as birth is. Organisms are born, they mature, and, ultimately, they perish. To interrupt this disrupts the natural harmony of the world, since our decomposing bodies eventually become soil for plants to grow in. In that way, we serve the planet long after our physical bodies have decayed and our souls have moved onto bigger and better things."

"Forgive me for valuing my life over that of a flower's, sir." Tom's face twisted perilously close to a sneer. "It's probably a result of my youth."

"If you don't wish to be buried, you could be cremated," I stated calmly.

"I don't want to die at all, Professor," Tom repeated, sounding a bit exasperated. "That's the point: I wish to conquer death― hypothetically speaking of course. I wish to destroy the greatest foe of humanity, or I would, if it were possible to do so."

"Hundreds have tried to do so, and none have succeeded without dying," I educated him quietly. "Death can only be triumphed over by dying."

"If I could, I would ensure eternal life by living, sir," announced Tom, his expression grim, but his eyes flashing manically. "That would certainly guarantee my place in magical history."

"Since we're being theoretical, I'm obliged to point out that living forever would be more of a burden than a gift and more of a curse than a blessing," I observed. "Tom, even if you could attain eternal life here, it would be lonely and exhausting. In the end, death would seem a mercy that you could never have."

As Tom opened his mouth to refute this, I decided that I was weary of this exchange. We had said everything that we needed to, and either my student would be convinced of the rightness of my position and learn my most important lesson, or he wouldn't. Either way, I was tired of hearing his troubling beliefs.

For a second, I imagined discussing this disconcerting conversation with one of my fellow staff members or with Headmaster Dippet. Yet, I knew there would be no profit in doing so. Tom had charmed every one of them, so they would be blind to any shadow elements in him. If I mentioned Tom's interest in defeating death, they would just insist that it was natural for talented students to push the bounds of their magic, and that the young often dreamed of cheating death. Besides, everyone would think it understandable that a boy who had lost his mother in childbirth would want to evade death. They would just cluck their tongues sympathetically and indulge Tom more. If there was one thing Tom didn't need more of it was indulgence. He was already pampered too much for his own good, since his ego was already the size of Russia and Canada combined. Anyway, there was nothing I could use as a concrete example of a sinister motive. Tom was clever enough to keep the conversation as hypothetical as if we were talking about the existence of purple stars.

"That's enough, Tom." I raised a hand to curtail his speech, and his mouth shut obediently. "I'm afraid that I must be returning to grading my papers."

"In that case, I'll be heading to the library now," he replied, walking toward the door of my office. When he reached the threshold, he spun around abruptly and added, "Thanks for the talk, Professor. It was intellectually stimulating."

Watching him exit my study over half a century ago, I had thought it was no wonder that Tom's wand, according to the letter Mr. Ollivander had sent me since I had requested that he tell me who purchased the wands with Fawkes' feathers in them was made of yew and contained a phoenix feather. If vanquishing death was his obsession, a phoenix feather would connect him to a bird capable of burning itself and being reborn from the ashes― an animal that was as near as any creature to possessing the elusive eternal life. The yew made sense, too. It was planted in graveyards, and legend stated that it fed off corpses. As a result, it was regarded as a symbol of death and regeneration. The wand had indeed chosen the wizard well.

Now, looking back on the whole scene, I knew that Harry would win over Voldemort in the end. When it came down to it, Harrry was immeasurably stronger than Voldemort. Whereas Voldemort had never done anything but flee from death, Harry had faced it head on numerous times and accepted it.

The secret to conquering death wasn't in butchering one's soul and creating Horcruxes or in hunting down the Deathly Hallows. Rather, it was in not diminishing life by standing in awe at the shadow of death, and in not permitting fear of death to dominate your destiny, because death only had sway over you if you let it. Similarly, the secret to eternal life was not in the glorification of the id, as Voldemort thought, but in the celebration of the superego.

Voldemort was wrong on both counts, because, in the final analysis, he was a very weak individual. Raised in a Muggle orphanage, he had surrendered to hatred and a thirst for revenge. When he detected darkness inside him, he nourished it and allowed it to consume him, since drowning in the darkness was easier than struggling to return to the light. In contrast, Harry was strong. Even though he had been reared with the Durselys who showed him all the warmth of a family of icebergs, he had never given into hatred. When he encountered the shadow elements within him, he fought them.

Voldemort had picked hatred, and Harry had selected love. Looking at the way Voldemort couldn't bear the agony of possessing someone as pure as Harry in the Ministry of Magic last year, it was obvious which force was more potent. Hate was the easy path, and it was the weaker one. Voldemort had followers that clung to him out of fear; Harry had friends who would die out of devotion to him.

In the end, I knew that Harry would have everything, even eternity, and Voldemort, after all his efforts that entailed the heinous crimes of murder and the mutilation of his own soul and handsome features, would have nothing― not England, not Europe, not the planet, and certainly not eternity. He wouldn't even have his own soul like his victims had theirs. As he had in life, in death, he would skink to the lowest depths imaginable.


End file.
